Bonella picked up his cigar. He drew on it slowly. “So there it is. And it goes all the way up the line. Even if you found investors, you’d have trouble getting the mortgage. Mortgage lenders will be afraid of you for the same reasons. We got the mortgage on Levee Court because Howard and I guaranteed it, but when you negotiate for a mortgage on the shopping center, you’ll be on your own. I don’t think a lender would advance you a nickel unless your backing was so substantial that he’d be taking practically no risk.”
“The way you put it,” Jon said easily, “the situation’s hopeless.”
“I know it isn’t fair that you gotta suffer because your name’s Chakorian, but that’s the size of it.” Bonella paused. “Look, you can’t maintain that one-man office on Randolph much longer, not with your only income coming from Levee Court. Why don’t you give up those fancy notions of being your own boss, and go to work for someone else?”
“What’s this leading up to? Another job offer?”
“That’s right. Yesterday I ran into a guy in the Chicago Real Estate Board dining room, a guy I knew in the thirties, before he went west. He’s got big holdings in California now and he’ll only be in town a few days. I told him about you. How you learned real estate in my office since your teens. How you put yourself through college playin’ football and runnin’ a half-dozen campus businesses on the side, and how you organized Levee Court before your twenty-third birthday. Jon, this guy’s interested. He doesn’t give a damn about your father, and he’s looking for a sharp young fella to handle lease negotiations. A good salary to start, and if you prove yourself, you could move up fast. He’s got no family of his own, and most of the men in the top jobs will retire in a few years. I’d hate to see you leave town, but in the long run it might be best.”
Jon thought that over. It was a temptation to go where not so many people would remember his father…
“It sounds good, Mike. But I’m not ready to quit here yet.”
Expressionless, Bonella stared at Jon. Then he settled back, smiling faintly. “I had a hunch you’d say that. You always were a stubborn cuss. I just thought I’d try. And by the way…” He pulled a small, gift-wrapped box from a jacket pocket. “Here. I ain’t been very festive, have I? I’ll have to miss the party, so happy birthday.”
Jon unwrapped the package. Inside, he found a tiny, silver shark’s tooth on a silver chain.
“Thanks, I…” Jon was quite moved. “I’ll always wear this. What made you think of it?”
“You’d never say much about the old one, the real shark’s tooth, but I noticed how attached you seemed to be to it. You wouldn’t even take it off for a bath. So when you said you lost it in Viet Nam, I thought I’d get you another.”
Jon held the amulet up. It dangled, spinning lazily, the metal glittering. “I don’t mind telling you about the first one, not any more. My father gave it to me the last time I saw him. He said it would bring a boy luck.”
“And did it?”
“At first, I didn’t think so. But I do now.”
* * * *
A brisk wind whipped along Wells Street. To the southwest, thunder rumbled, presaging a summer squall.
It was ten o’clock. Ordinarily, at this hour the street would have been packed with people, well-dressed couples and conventioneers mingling with informally attired visitors of all ages, colors and descriptions. This stretch of Wells, less than two miles from the Loop, had been slum until it experienced a resurgence in the early 1960s. Now an entertainment and shopping center, it was lined with colorful stores, restaurants and bars, most of them carrying out the Gay Nineties motif signaled by rows of gaslights fanning south from North Avenue.
Tonight, though, the street was bare. Instead of strolling leisurely the few people on the sidewalk hurried along, trying to beat the impending rain. The first drops fell as Jon pulled his car into a narrow driveway between one side of Levee Court and the three-story, frame building in which he lived. He’d spent the early evening at the home of Bonella’s oldest daughter. Many Bonellas had attended Jon’s birthday party there, and Uncle Howard had turned up too, accompanied by his latest girlfriend. Howard had had a succession of tall, thirtyish girlfriends since his divorce from Elvira, but he’d never remarried.
Levee Court was an old commercial garage remodeled to contain an arcade of four shops on one side and a cabaret called The Den on the other. Afternoons, the Den served sandwiches. Evenings, it featured Dixieland combos.
Jon owned only 10 percent of Levee Court. Bonella and Howard had put up the rest of the money. But as organizer and manager, Jon was paid to supervise the building’s maintenance and collect rents and a percentage of each tenant’s profits. In addition, he worked part-time helping Eric, the bar licensee, keep order in The Den on busy evenings.
This wasn’t one of them. Only a handful of customers were sitting around as Jon walked in. The musicians were taking a break, and Eric perched at the bar, nursing a stein of beer.
Jon climbed onto a stool beside him. Eric was a tall, husky young man with a thick, gray beard that gave him a Bohemian look. The beard impressed tourists, but there was little Bohemian about him. He had a degree in business administration, a wife, and four children, and lived in a six-flat apartment building which he owned.
Eric said, “Hi. All through celebrating?”
“I guess so.”
“Then I’ll give you the bad news. First, Pearl is looking for you.”
“Pearl?” Jon shook his head. “I don’t know a Pearl.” Eric shrugged. “Well, she knows you. She was here earlier. She seemed angry when I told her I didn’t know when you’d be in. I thought it was something personal.”
“What’d she look like?”
“A blonde. A big blonde. A stunner, in a sloppy sort of way.”
“Sorry, she rings no bell. What’s the other bad news?”
“Her.” Eric nodded to a cage at the end of the bar. A tall, statuesque brunette wearing a low-cut, crimson gown sat behind it. “Delores. Our cashier. Our Den Mother. You remember the Vice Squad cop who’s been hanging around, and we couldn’t understand why? He wasn’t investigating us, he was investigating Delores. They’re getting married next month. She just quit, so we gotta find another cashier fast.”
“Damn. Replacing her won’t be easy. She hardly ever steals from the register. The girls respect her, and she knows how to keep them in line…
Keeping the girls in line was one of the cashier’s chief duties. It’s why Jon and Eric called her “Den Mother.” The Den had a big turnover in waitresses, pretty girls in their late teens and early twenties. The cashier had to train and supervise them, and at the same time establish rapport with them, in order to transmit any legitimate beefs about working conditions to the management.
“Speaking of bad news,” Eric said, “how’s our shopping center?”
“Between you and me,” Jon admitted, “it’s practically sunk. I didn’t have the guts to tell Mike today, but if I can’t find a big investor by next week, I’ll have to let the option on the land expire. It’ll mean starting all over again with some other project.”
“After all the work you’ve done, and the money you’ve spent? Making studies and surveys? Hiring an architect, and all the rest of it?” Eric scowled. “Hell, I told you. My four brothers and I will put up ten thousand between us. All you need is two hundred ninety thousand more.”
“Yeah.” Jon said. “But don’t fret. If the shopping center falls through, the new project will be a much better deal. Absolutely sure-fire.”
“What’s the new project?”
“At the moment, I don’t have the faintest notion.”
* * * *
Rain splattered against the windows of Jon’s second-floor apartment. Below, a few people darted along Wells, seeking shelter. Strange, but from this distance one of them, a tall, bulky man who stepped into a
bar across the street, looked very much like the man who’d walked out of the brownstone with Jon’s father; the man who’d come back and threatened to kill Jon if he told. He was about the same height and build, and carried himself in the same way. But then, there’d been other times when Jon thought he’d seen the man. He’d investigated, and learned it was someone else, someone who didn’t resemble him at all…
Jon walked to a desk, sat down, opened a drawer and pulled out an ancient composition book. On the first page, inked in a childish scrawl, was the legend: “My Father’s Betrayal.” He was ashamed of what he’d written in that notebook now. Mike Bonella had shown him where his father’s enemies hadn’t had much choice. Jon didn’t hate anyone any more, except the man who’d held a knife at his throat, and he’d even made amends with Skipper Molloy.
Slowly, Jon turned the pages. The words blurred, but he didn’t have to read them. He’d committed most of them to memory, and for some events he had almost total recall. Thanksgiving, when Elvira found him with the diamonds. Christmas Eve, and his last talk with his father. The long sleepless night after his father went away. The horror of the next day, when the police came and Elvira took him to her house. And Bess—Where was Bess now? The last time he’d tried to trace her…
How long Jon sat thinking of the past, he didn’t know. What brought him back to the present was an insistent rapping at the door.
Quickly, Jon replaced the notebook, went to the door and opened it.
A girl loomed on the threshold. Even in flat-heeled shoes, she was an inch or so taller than Jon. A plastic rain hood held her blonde hair in bounds; under her raincoat, she wore a sheath-like dress that ended midway between her knees and thighs. While the dress hung loosely, it was apparent her proportions were Junoesque.
“What the hell,” she asked, “were you doing? I banged on that door almost a minute.” She brushed past him. She had blue eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth and a slightly receding chin. “You,” she went on, “are a hard guy to corner alone.”
Jon shut the door and leaned against it. “I’m sorry. But why are you so anxious to see me alone?”
“It was my employer’s suggestion.” She sat in a chair. Her skirt hiked to a fascinating level. “He thought it’d be best that way. He wants to talk to you, right now. I came in a cab. We can drive to where he is in your heap.”
“That’s nice. But why didn’t he come himself, and speak to me here? And incidentally, who are you?”
“I’m Pearl.” Ineffectually, she tugged at her skirt. Then she shrugged, giving it up as a lost cause. “In some ways, my employer’s got a weird mind. He thought if he came personally you might throw him out, but that if I came I’d sort of lure you.”
“That’s not so weird. You’re a remarkably attractive woman.”
“Uh-huh.” Pearl was unimpressed. “But there are other reasons. Like, he don’t get around much any more. It’s easier if people go to him, instead of him to them. On top of which he’s hiding out. He doesn’t want certain people to know he’s in Chicago, not yet anyhow.”
“Now,” Jon said, “I’m really interested. This employer of yours—who is he?”
“His name,” Pearl said, “is Felix Schatzmueller.”
CHAPTER 6
Pearl told Jon to drive to a motel on North Lincoln Avenue. During the ride, she brushed off his attempts at conversation, so he tried to recall as much about Schatz as he could.
He hadn’t heard from the old man since his father disappeared. Much of that time, Jon knew, Schatz had spent in prison. Later he tried to get Rudy declared legally dead, to collect on his insurance policy, but the insurance company opposed that on grounds the disappearance smacked of fraud.
Indeed it did. Rudy had taken out the policies on Schatz and Jon only a few months before his disappearance. The company buttressed its position with reports Rudy had been seen alive in various parts of the world since, and even cited the two thousand dollars Jon got on his birthday each year. Jon had taken no part in the litigation. Quietly, he and Bonella accepted a settlement from the insurance company: a rebate of the first premium, plus a little extra, in exchange for a waiver of all future claims. But Schatz had refused a settlement, and the case was now in legal limbo, awaiting future developments.
Two things about Schatz Jon remembered very well. One, that he was a scoundrel; the other, that he knew about the diamonds. Rudy had said that, when he’d told Jon about them. All in all, it promised to be an interesting meeting. Jon thought it unlikely Schatz would have sought him out merely to reminisce about old times. Schatz wasn’t the sentimental type.
Pearl said, “There it is. The dump on the right.”
Jon wheeled his car into the lot and parked. The rain had ended, but water dripped from the pastel-hued motel building. They got out.
“The end unit,” Pearl added. “Just knock. You’re expected.”
“Aren’t you joining us?”
“No. He thought that when you old pals held your reunion, I’d cramp your style.”
Pearl strolled toward a neon sign over the entrance to the motel’s cocktail lounge. Jon walked to the end unit, stopped, and rapped on the door twice.
The door swung open and there was Schatz. His father’s old comrade sat in a wheel chair, a thin robe over his lap. He’d aged a lot and seemed thinner, more fragile than when Jon was a boy, but his eyes still burned with life.
“Jon? Yes, it must be! Come in, and close the door…
As Jon stepped in Schatz propelled the wheel chair backward, expertly rounding a desk and winding up behind it. “The face, the look in the eye—it’s Rudy all over again. Only you’re so much taller. But I’m seeing a ghost…He nodded to the desk. On it were a phone, some papers, cigarettes, an overflowing ash tray, a frosty pitcher of clear liquid and a pair of tumblers, one empty and the other nearly empty. “Martini. It helps me sleep. Have some?”
“No, thanks.” Jon pulled up a chair.
“You don’t drink?”
“Never.”
“Smoke?”
“Not that, either.”
“Girls?”
“That, yes.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.” Schatz chuckled. He poured himself more martini. “Of course at my age there are no more girls, even if it weren’t for my legs.”
“What happened?”
“An accident. In prison.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It could be worse. I’ve been doing exercises. I get around pretty good now with a cane, dress myself and take care of myself. And if I have trouble, Pearl helps me.” He sipped from the tumbler. “Lovely child. Her father was my cellmate. I was at his side when he died. He murdered a policeman.”
“I see. And what business are you in these days?”
“Ladies dresses.”
Jon began to smile.
“Oh, it’s true,” Schatz went on. “I’m legitimate. Look in Dun & Bradstreet, you’ll see. I have a very small factory in Manhattan. When I got out of prison, some people who owed me past favors loaned me the money to buy it. I’m not getting rich, it’s terribly hard work, but I pay the rent. And a few times a year, Pearl and I make a swing around the country, selling the line.” He winked. “I’m very effective with lady buyers. They feel so sorry for the poor old man who can’t walk. And Pearl does very well with the men.”
“That’s why you’re in Chicago? To sell dresses?” Jon settled back. It was time to bring Schatz to the point, if there was to be one. “Well, I’m glad you sent for me. What a happy coincidence that you were in town on my birthday, saw the story about the latest gift of two thousand dollars, and learned where to reach me. There’s a lot I must ask you about. My father’s early life. He never told me much. And my mother. He never said much about her either, except that she was a danger who died when I was born. Tell me, how did they meet? How…”
“I suggest,” Schatz interrupted genially, “that we stop sparring. I’m not here just to sell dresses this time. I also came to see you, about the million in diamonds Rudy had in his shoes when he walked out of the brownstone.”
Jon didn’t reply.
Schatz lit a cigarette. Smoke eddied around his lean, yellowed features. “Rudy told me you knew about them. He said he found you and your Aunt Elvira with them on Thanksgiving, but that she didn’t know their value or their hiding place. I’ve waited until now to speak to you about them because I didn’t want to talk to a boy. But now that you’re a man, back from the war, with a business of your own, we must both be frank. I never lied to Rudy; I don’t think Rudy ever lied to me. It must be that way with us, too. Tell me—have you told anyone else?”
“No. Not a word.”
“So you, me and Rudy—we’re the only people who knew, on the Christmas Eve he disappeared, that he had the diamonds with him, hidden in his shoes. And that leads to many interesting speculations, doesn’t it?”
There was something odd about Schatz. His voice was under control, but, claw-like, his right hand tightened around the tumbler.
“You know,” Schatz went on, “I remember you so well as a child. Always underfoot, crawling here and there, nosing into everything. The newspapers said that on Christmas Eve you were asleep and saw nothing, but I never entirely believed it. I always suspected you did see something, but kept quiet to protect your father. Was it like that?”
It struck Jon then, a sixth sense, a warning like so many he’d felt when engaged in an important negotiation. Schatz knew something, and was trying to learn more from Jon without giving his information in return.
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 45